


Fathers, Be Good

by jessaverant



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, FACE Family, Family Fluff, Father's Day, Gen, I wrote this to make someone squee, M/M, This story is ancient, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:34:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessaverant/pseuds/jessaverant
Summary: Arthur Kirkland reflects on the most important times that his twin sons have said 'Daddy' in their five years as part of his life.





	Fathers, Be Good

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EmmyJay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/gifts).



“Daddy! Daddy! Look what I did!”

Arthur perked at the sound of a young voice ringing through his ears and turned, water bottle in hand, to the almost-five-year-old who was standing before him. The skinny youth had sunny blonde locks that were wet and sticking to his face, bright fire-engine-red swim trunks and a sheen of sand and salt water covering him from head to toe. A goofy grin spread across pink cheeks and he threw his arms in the air as he approached.  
  
“What did you do, Al?” The elder asked, leaning back and opening the bottle. Alfred could barely contain his excitement as he skidded to a stop before his father, sand cresting through the air.  
  
“I dumped a bucket of water on my head!” Alfred declared with pride. Arthur chuckled and pushed his heels deeper into the sand.   
  
“Now why would you do that?” he asked in a bemused tone. Alfred pinched his lips together and suddenly he threw himself into his father’s arms, transferring the salty ocean water from his little body to Arthur. The little boy wrapped his arms around Arthur’s neck and buried his head into Arthur’s shoulder, giggling to himself as Arthur jerked to the side at the sudden feeling of _wet._  
  
“Alfred Kirkland-Bonnefoy, get  _off of me!_ ” Arthur cried, and with a delighted squeak Alfred fell back into the sand and scampered away. Arthur sat up straight, arms spread-eagle, gazing down at his now soaked shirt. He looked up in time to watch Alfred give Francis a tiny high-five down by the water’s edge, the duo glancing back with matching cat-like grins. Arthur snorted and rolled his eyes, wringing out his shirt and looking to his right.  
  
His other son was sitting beside him, propped on a blue blanket, quietly chewing on a piece of watermelon. As suddenly as he had run off, Alfred came back, ducked into the cooler, picked up a piece of watermelon, took a big bite, and then dropped it _back_ into the cooler and ran _back_ to Francis. Francis laughed as he scooped the child into his tanned arms, allowing Alfred to snuggle against his neck and cover his front in sand. Francis then leaned over and started tickling his young son, fingers dancing over his bare sides and a huge smile covering his face as Alfred shrieked with laughter.  
  
“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy, Papa is tickling meee!” Alfred cried. Matthew chuckled from beside Arthur and continued eating the watermelon, big violet eyes set on her brother and other father. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand and placed the rind in the cooler. He turned to his father and said in a small voice

“Can I have some water, Daddy?”

“Of course, poppet,” Arthur said, handing the bottle over. The laughter was still coming, piercing through their bubble of calm.

“Daddy can’t help you now, _mon trognon!”_

“Dadddddddyyyyy!”  
  
_”Da!”_  
  
The exclamation nearly made Arthur drop the knife in his hand. Francis was sitting at the kitchen table, hand poised with a spoon to Matthew’s mouth, but his attention was held by Alfred. Alfred, little Alfred, who just said ‘da’.   
  
Alfred looked from one man to the other, happy as possible, barely one and a half years, and repeated himself.   
  
“Da!” He reached out, all pudgy fingers and kicking toes. “Da!”  
  
“A-Arthur,” Francis muttered, “...your son is calling for you.” Arthur was frozen at the kitchen counter, where he was cutting up a loaf of bread for the family to eat with their dinner. Matthew was sucking at his sippy cup, his peas abandoned in his plate, as Francis had lowered the spoon. Finally, Arthur lowered the knife and walked across the kitchen where he crouched at Alfred’s high chair.   
  
“Who’s that, Alfie?” Francis asked, pointing to Arthur. Alfred turned and kicked his legs again.   
  
“Da!” he exclaimed.  
  
“Yes!” Francis replied. He rubbed a bit of potato from Alfred’s cheek; Alfred giggled with joy. “Good job, Alfie. Now, who am I? Can you say ‘Papa’?” he asked. Alfred licked his lips, his big blue eyes darting from one parent to the other. He pursed his lips, as if to say ‘Papa’, but instead of forming syllables, he just buzzed his lips and descended into gibberish, shrieking and flailing his arms. Matthew also started laughing, his hands falling into his bowl of peas. Francis smiled, and Arthur had to turn away—he thought he was going to cry.  
  
Alfred continued making ridiculous noises, sticking out his tongue and reaching onto Matthew’s tray, taking peas out of his bowl and dropping them onto his own tray. The laughter reverberated around the small house in the cool evening, and it was infectious.   
  
“Oh, that’s my boy, Alfred,” Arthur said, running a hand through his hair. Alfred smiled up at his father, who kissed the top of his head.  
  
“Da! Da!”  
  
“...Papa.” A soft voice broke into the chatter, and both Arthur and Francis turned to little Matthew, who was sitting, cup in hand, looking apprehensive. “Papa,” he repeated, staring straight at Francis with big violet eyes. He turned slightly and looked at Arthur. “Da,,” he said. “Da... da. Dada.” Matthew smiled, looking proud of himself. Alfred stared at his twin, and Matthew turned to him. A moment passed between them; they both started giggling, kicking their legs and reaching out to their parents, calling out “Da!” and “Papa!” interchangeably. Arthur smoothed their hair and kissed the tops of both their heads, giving Francis a look that said everything.  
  
“Daaaaaaddddddyyyyyy!” Alfred’s yell cut through Arthur’s thoughts and grounded him in the present. Alfred had been released by Francis and was now gathering supplies for the sand castle he had been talking about all day. Arthur turned to Matthew, who was watching Francis and Alfred with interest.  
  
“Would you like to go build a sand castle with Papa and Alfred?” Arthur asked. Matthew seemed to consider it, and then shrugged and reached for another small piece of watermelon. It was the one Alfred had started on before and was a particularly juicy one. Watermelon juice dribbled down his front and all over his blue trunks.  
  
“Here, Matthew, your face is getting all sticky,” Arthur said, and he took a piece of paper towel, wet it with his water, and wiped it around Matthew’s mouth and nose. Matthew blinked and squirmed at the contact but Arthur was able to get his face clean. Matthew dropped the watermelon rind and clutched his bear, digging his feet into the sand. Arthur ran a gentle hand through Matthew’s blonde curls, and Francis came over, bending down and lifting the boy up.  
  
“Come,  _mon petit chou_ , Alfie wants to show you something,” Francis said, and he hoisted Matthew into the air, putting him over his shoulder and walking down the beach. Matthew nuzzled Francis’s neck, reaching for the ponytail at the nape of Francis’s neck.  
  
“Bye, Daddy,” Matthew said, waving to his father. Francis looked over his shoulder, caught Arthur’s eye and blew a kiss, which made Arthur flush furiously and wave it away. The three blonds were now together by the ocean’s edge, Alfred excitedly holding a bucket up to Matthew, who peered inside. Left to himself, his mind wandered.  
  
_”D-daddy—“_  
  
“Hush, Matthew. Let it all out.” Matthew’s knuckles were white as he gripped the edge of the toilet bowl, his little head ducked inside. He had upchucked most of, if not all of the little food he’d eaten that day, and every time he looked up, all Arthur could see was how pale his face was and how tired he looked. His eyes were stained with tears and he was coughing, sputtering into the bowl. Arthur was kneeling beside him, rubbing his back, wiping his forehead.   
  
Matthew heaved into the toilet for a few more moments, and then allowed Arthur to pull him up into his arms, wiping his face with a warm cloth. Matthew avoided Arthur’s gaze as his father washed his face clean and ran the cloth through his curls. There was a gentle knock on the door and Francis appeared, looking just as haggard as Matthew. Alfred was hovering by Francis’s leg, clinging onto his pajama bottoms and looking up at Arthur with a terrified expression. Arthur closed the toilet lid and placed Matthew on top, pulling his shirt off and throwing it in the hamper. Matthew sniffed and coughed, trying to contain his tears but failing.   
  
“How’s he doing?” Francis asked, stroking Alfred’s head as he spoke. Arthur leaned forward and drew Matthew’s head to his chest, speaking softly to him.  
  
“Papa, whassa matter with Matt?” Alfred asked. He pulled on Francis’s pant leg, blue eyes wide and threatening tears. “Papa, I’m scared, what’s happenin’?”  
  
“Get him out of here,” Arthur muttered. “Francis, please, look how upset he is.”  
  
“Come now, mon trognon,” Francis said as he started ushering the boy from the room. “You must go back to bed—“  
  
“No! Daddy! Tell me Mattie will be okay!” Alfred pleaded, and Arthur bit his lower lip at the sound of his other son’s cries.   
  
“Alfred—“  
  
“Daddy!” Alfred was still clinging to Francis’s leg, refusing to move. Arthur gave his son a sad, tired smile. The look of abject fear in Alfred’s eyes pierced right through his heart.  
  
“I promise,” Arthur said softly, “that Matthew will be fine.” Alfred stared from Arthur to Francis, swallowed, and allowed Francis to lift him into the air and carry him out of the bathroom. Arthur turned back to Matthew, whose eyes were lidded and appeared dazed. “How are you feeling, love?” Matthew groaned in response and Arthur scooped him up into his arms.  
  
“Daddy...” Matthew moaned and he laid his head against Arthur’s shoulder, whimpering. Arthur just rocked his son gently, shushing him and stroking his head.  
  
“It’s alright, Mattie,” Arthur cooed. He reached onto the edge of the sink and grabbed a small pink bottle, and then gently lifted the boy into the air as he stood, heading out into the living room. Francis was sitting on the couch with Alfred beside him, speaking in quiet French to him.  
  
“... être un bon frère, mon trognon,” Francis said as Arthur sat down beside them.  
  
“Pourquoi est-il si triste?” Alfred inquired, but he perked up as Arthur sat and scrambled across Francis’s lap. “Mattie!” Matthew popped his thumb into his mouth and gave a tiny smile to his twin. Alfred pulled a little white stuffed bear from beside Francis and handed it to Matthew. “I gotcher bear, Mattie.”  
  
Matthew took the bear in his free hand and buried his face in Arthur’s night shirt. Arthur laid the back of his hand against Matthew’s forehead, sighed, and sat back into the cushions, handing the bottle of medicine to Francis.  
  
“Here—open this, and help me pour it,” he said. He sounded fatigued. “He’s still feverish.” Francis obeyed, opening the bottle and pouring some of the dark liquid into the spoon.   
  
“Alright, Matthew, open up,” Francis instructed, but Matthew didn’t move. “Come now, it will make you feel better, yes?” Matthew looked up at Francis, eyes wide, but he finally removed his thumb from his mouth and allowed Francis to put the spoon in instead. Francis tipped the spoon up and Matthew coughed and sputtered, the bitter medicine burning his tongue, but he swallowed, coughed, and laid his head back down. Through the entire ordeal, Alfred was just staring at his brother, eyes as wide as dinner plates.  
  
“I think,” Francis said, standing up from the couch, “it’s time for us all to go to bed. Come, you can both sleep in our room. It’s two a.m.” Alfred seemed hesitant at first, but complied with the suggestion, and wiggled his hand into Francis’s as he led the toddler down the hallway, Arthur following with Matthew in his arms. It was probably going to be a long night.  
  
“Hey! Al!” A sharp yell drew Arthur back and he watched as Alfred began splashing both Francis and Matthew in the shallow tide. The water was hitting some other children nearby, and Francis stooped down to Alfred’s level and seemed to scold him quietly while Matthew kicked at cresting waves. Alfred bowed his head for a moment, but then ran up and pounced on Matthew, sending water flying everywhere. Francis stood in the water to his ankles, hands on his hip, watching the twins and shaking his head. Their sand castle lay partially abandoned a few feet away, mostly just lumps of sand and water.  
  
Arthur picked at his t-shirt. It was still damp from when Alfred jumped on him and the fabric wasn’t exactly comfortable against his chest. He’d take it off but he _hated_ showing his chest in public; just covered in old scars and faded tattoos, reminders of a disjointed past.  
  
_”Whassat say, Daddy?” Alfred asked as he touched Arthur’s chest. Arthur had finally removed the gauze from his left pectoral and was sitting on the couch shirtless, since the newest ink still had twinge of pain. Alfred had climbed up into his lap and was quickly joined by Matthew._  
  
“That? That says ‘Alfred’,” Arthur explained as he took Alfred’s hand and ran it over the word, inked right over his heart. “And that says ‘Matthew’.” The two words were side-by-side, separated by a small, ornate rose. Underneath was the date that the twins had come home to him and his husband. Alfred stared at his own named, written in cursive, his eyes following every swoop of a letter and curl of a line.  
  
“An’ whassat?” Alfred asked, putting his hand on the older tattoo just above. Arthur chuckled.  
  
“That’s your Papa,” Arthur said, placing his own fingers on the tattoo. It said ‘Francis’ in the same font as his sons’ names, with a background of a fleur-de-lis. Francis had made fun of him when he’d gotten it, right after they were married, but it was one of Arthur’s favorites. Much better than the ones on his lower abdomen, his shoulders, or the backs of his legs.  
__  
“So it says ‘Papa’?” Matthew inquired. Arthur laughed.  
  
“It says ‘Francis’, that’s your Papa’s name.”  
  
“Arthur!” Francis was calling his name “Arthuuuur, I’m sending Matthew to you!” Arthur nodded and stretched. Matthew waded through the throngs of people back to their little setting and smiled at his father, his legs and feet covered in sand.  
  
“Daddy!” he called happily.   
  
_”Da!_  
  
“Dada!”  
  
“Come here, you,” Arthur said, and he picked up a navy blue towel with white stars and wrapped the little boy within it. He ruffled Matthew’s curls and pulled him into a hug. Matthew burrowed his face into Arthur’s neck, holding onto the front of his wet t-shirt with the iron grip of a child. He was warm from being in the sun and smelled of sunscreen and sea water. Arthur used his free hand to stroke his back through the towel and it was only a few minutes before he felt the rhythmic breathing of sleep against him. It was getting late into the afternoon and the excitement of the day was wearing on his children.  
  
It wasn’t long until Alfred joined them, always jealous of affection that wasn’t shared with him. He wandered up the beach with his bucket in his hands, eyelids drooping.

“Dadddyyyyyyyyy,” Alfred whined, and Arthur placed a finger to his lips and nodded towards Matthew.

“Come here,” he said, opening his other arm and allowing Alfred to cuddle against him. _This_ twin was soaking wet but Arthur didn’t mind. Francis finally joined them, holding the rest of Alfred’s toys and packing them away.

“Looks like it’s time to leave, then?” Francis offered, pulling his hair out of it’s ponytail and running his fingers through it. Arthur, covered in sleeping children, nodded. Both boys had their heads against his neck, leaning against his chest, just as they had when they were babies.

  
_"They're asleep," Arthur said, his voice full of awe. "They're asleep in my arms."_  
  
"They feel safe with you.” Francis tilted his head. "They know their Daddy."  
  
“Are they asleep?” Francis asked softly as he knelt down beside Arthur and his sons. Arthur nodded.  
  
“All tuckered out,” he murmured. “All angelic-like.”  
  
“Yes, that’s something we don’t see often,” Francis commented. He snaked an arm over Arthur’s shoulder and drew closer, dropping a lingering kiss to the crown of Matthew’s head. He lifted his head and found himself mere inches from Arthur’s face; he leaned in and placed a gentle kiss to Arthur’s lips, more of a peck than anything, noses and cheeks and lips pressing together, the sand on Francis’s cheeks rubbing against Arthur’s. Francis pulled away and moved over to place a hand on Alfred’s head and give him a kiss as well. Arthur smiled.  
  
“Happy Father’s Day, Francis.”  
  
“Happy Father’s Day.”

**Author's Note:**

> I originally wrote this in 2011 and posted it on Livejournal (HAH) but since today is Father's Day and I'm getting my yearly Hetalia Feels™ I thought I'd give it a good edit and post it to this account instead! I still absolutely love Hetalia and will probably be doing this with a lot of my old fics to give them some new life.
> 
> I wrote this for a close friend of mine, to make her feel things <3 Ilu bby


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